I stop breathing sometimes. Perhaps I'm trying to hold back the wave of pain rising in my chest and throat and prickling my nose. I feel rather lost - as if I am bobbing about in a vast ocean of grief, waiting for my feet to touch the ground again. Life around me goes on. People go to work, girls plan a girls only night, the coming of spring is anticipated, babies are born... I try to keep busy, try to occupy my thoughts so that the waves of grief don't wash over me and fill my lungs. Inevitably though, there's a point in the day when I don't risist and I go to that barren place in my heart. It's a place that's filled with memories of how my daughter's skin felt - her soft velvety head, the way she smelled so sweet. It's a place where I remember how she moved in me, tapping against my abdominal wall to let me know she was excited to come out and meet me face to face. It's the place where I remember saying goodbye to her and watching her being wheeled out of my hospital room and down the pale hallway.
They say that time is the best healer. Yes time...time in which this heartache must ache hard. There's no quick fix for this one. It's the path I am on and there is no detour. It's relearning how to live - learning to breathe.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vVlnHT8OkQQ
this is so poetic Ginia, and you say you aren't much of a poet. Thank you for being so brave in your sharing of grief. You are. so. Brave.
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